


Five Stages

by nothingventurred (nothingventured)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, Feels, M/M, Sad, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-04
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-23 14:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/623159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingventured/pseuds/nothingventurred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I regret nothing about my life, but I only wish I had more of it to regret."<br/>Mycroft is dying, and there is no hope left. Broken up into sections matching the five stages of dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Stages

**Shock.**

The words are out of the doctor's mouth, but my ears refuse to listen, the headache between my eyes intensifying like someone is sticking a white-hot poker into my cranium. I hear snippets of the conversation, unable to decipher much.

_"Inoperable."_

_"Incurable."_

_"Weeks, at best."_

_"I'm sorry."_

The apology rings in my ears like a church bell in a tower, repeating itself over and over until it is ingrained in my psyche. So commonly used, so many times, and yet this time, the meaning is all that much more real; it is a condolence not for a stranger, nor a character in a medical drama, not even for a family member whom you are expected to cry over. It is for me. And my lover, who will lose me in a matter of weeks, the tumour in my head growing faster than modern medicine can stop it. I feel myself being lifted, presumably into a wheelchair, and feel the world passing beneath the wheels. Or it could be that I am being pushed, at this point I do not know, as the pain in my head has caused me to nearly go blind.

**Anger.**

The headaches have gotten worse. It feels as if someone is attempting to pull my brain out through my skull, and every moment is spent in utter agony, at least until the drugs kick in. They numb the pain, but also my sense of awareness, my sense of self. I am caught in a dream-world, where my only options are devastating pain, or numbness and blessed sleep. It is hell on earth, to have to choose between keeping your brilliance at a horrible price, or allowing yourself to slip into comfortable oblivion as your lover looks on, heartbreak and devastation in his beautiful eyes. I cannot remember their colour; I cannot remember much of anything, to be honest. I barely remember my name. Some night I hear him say it to me, when he thinks I can't hear.

_"I love you, Mycroft."_

The words are always the same, but the tone in which he says them is different each time. Sometimes, he is angry; sometimes sad, and sometimes, rarely, there is no emotion in his words at all. Just a mindless phrase being repeated like a schoolboy repeats his lessons.  
I can always feel him watching, sometimes I hear him cry as I lie in bed next to him and he thinks I am asleep. Why, though? This isn't about him. He is not the one dying. He is not the one who will never fulfill his purpose. He will not be the one who leaves behind everything because of a bad roll of the genetic dice. I am angry, irritable; constantly reminded with every chime of the clock that my time on Earth is slowly ticking away. Hour by hour, minute by minute, second by second, I can feel myself being pulled closer towards the realm of death, and I don't want to go.

**Bargaining**

Perhaps if I had been a kinder man, a gentler man, then this fate wouldn't have befallen me. If I had done unto others, and never cheated, stolen...who am I kidding? I would never have made it without my sins, all of them. I regret nothing about my life, but I only wish I had more of it to regret. If nothing else, I at least believe that I could have a few weeks, months, perhaps a year, if proper, proactive treatment is taken immediately. I relay my concerns to Gregory; he nods and smiles, as he always does. I sigh, and resume my position, staring out the window of the flat. It's a good day, the pain in my head manageable. I have just enough of the drugs in my system to keep me happy, but not enough to make me disoriented, which is a much-needed release from my dream-world, where nothing exists but pain and tears, and the desire to pull oneself out of a fog that will never end.

Those hopes I had so naively believed could have possibly been true come crashing down at my feet at my next appointment; there has been no miracle, there isn't any improvement. If anything, my time has shortened further than originally thought. I have days. Two weeks, at the most. I finally break down, and I cry.

**Depression**

I never leave my bed, anymore. I cannot. I am constantly caught in my dream world, my lover at my side. Sometimes we cry together, tears of anguish and unspoken agony, and I sometimes wonder what he will do when I am gone. I wish for death, now, if only to release him from this prison that I have created, that my body has created for me. I curse my brilliant mind, and its ability to destroy the lives of everyone around me.

I have visitors, every so often; John, offering sympathy and promising to take care of my brother, which I greatly appreciate. Molly, offering her condolences to both Gregory and I, her beautiful yet tired eyes shining with tears. Anthea, my dear Anthea, my loyal companion for so many years. She tries to stay relatively cheerful, for her sake as well as mine, but it is no use. She eventually breaks down, throwing her arms around my neck and sobbing, her tears and mascara soaking through my thin cotton shirt. I manage to hug her; I am not a sensitive man, but in these past weeks, I have become gentler, more aware of those around me. Had I been that way before my mind and body betrayed me, perhaps things would have been different. No matter. Everything does not happen for a reason, I learn; things happen, and we are powerless to stop them. We are all dying, some of us faster than others.

I have one final visitor, and I dread who I am to see; Sherlock, my darling baby brother Sherlock, weeps at my bedside in a way I have never seen. Suddenly he is the round-cheeked toddler that used to climb into my bed after nightmares, babbling on about them, reaching up to tug at my shirt until I held him, which I never once refused to do. He breaks, I can see it, and the apologies for past indiscretions fall from his full lips. I stop him.

"Do not cry for me," I say, or at least I think that's what I'm saying. I truly don't know anymore. "Do not cry for the dead, for their pain is over," I whisper to the man who has suddenly become my baby again, or perhaps he was all this time, and I had not seen it.

I run my fingers through his thick, beautiful curls, of which I had always been so jealous, and I whisper that it is alright, that he need not weep. He is a scientist, he knows that my body is simply going through the changes that we all must go through. Everyone is born, everyone lives, everyone dies. He continues to sob, and I realize why; he is not just losing a brother, or a friend. He is losing the only other one in the world like him, the only one who truly understands what it is like to go through life as he does. He is losing another half of himself, and I weep with him. 

I hold him close, and our tears mingle as I press our cheeks together, my lips pressed against his ear. He clings to me, like he did so long ago, and I hush him, whispering the soft lullaby that I sang for him so many years ago. He reaches for his cell phone, and he records my voice, my song, my lullaby. He records everything I say, which must sound like complete gibberish, but he continues to record. He records until his phone runs out of memory, and then we just sit, him curled up at my side, his head buried in my shoulder, his curls tickling my chin. I sigh, and I allow myself to break. I am leaving them all behind, I realize. And there is not a thing that anyone can do to relieve their pain.

**Acceptance**

I can feel the changes in my body slowly overtaking me. The pain is constant, and I spend my days either in complete agony, holding my head and shouting for the pain to stop, or blissfully asleep. I am mostly blind, the tumour pressing on my optic nerve. I can still hear, but not very well. I cannot take care of myself; Gregory does everything for me. He feeds me, bathes me, tends to my every need. Sometimes I wonder if this hasn't all but destroyed him. I can hear the tiredness in his voice, and feel the pain that radiates from him. My heart breaks for my lover; he will soon be alone, but at the very least, he will no longer have to suffer through seeing me like this, a shadow of the man I once was.

One night, the date lost on me, I begin to feel the pain subsiding. The ache in my head begins to dim, and my breathing quickens. I call out for my lover, terror overtaking my once-rational mind. I never used to fear death, but now that it is closing in, I am afraid.

"Gregory..."

My voice is small, afraid. He gathers me up in his arms and holds me close, my head resting on his shoulder. Somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind, I wonder how he is able to hold me like this, as I am quite fat. Or at least, I was, before this disease took over my body and turned it against me.  
I take a breath, and bury my head in his shoulder, feeling Death in the room with me, so close, nearly close enough to touch me, to take me away.

"I'm scared,"

I whimper, clinging to him as if he is a lifeboat in a raging sea storm.

"I know. It's okay. It's okay, love. I'm here."

His voice is soft, comforting, not a hint of sadness. I can feel the love in his heart blossoming in mine, and I use my last ounce of strength to intertwine our fingers.

"I love you."

I whisper, closing my eyes, his face the last thing I see.

"I love you, too. Always."

I hear his voice, and then it fades, his words ringing soft in my ear. I feel my mind shutting down, my heart slowing. I release a breath, preparing to take in another, but it never comes. I feel the life seep from my body; it's a strange feeling, but it does not hurt. I attribute some of that to the fact that my lover is holding me.

It feels as if I am floating, and the pain is suddenly gone. I feel him squeeze my hand, then release it.

I am free.


End file.
